The Consulting Chef and the On-Air Medic
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John and Sherlock meet on the set of a televised cooking show. Sherlock's apparently a chef and John's one of the medics. [Masterchef (or any similar cooking show) AU.]


**A Consulting Chef and the On-Air Medic**

John idly watched the contestants at their tables as they fried, grilled, baked, sifted, drizzled, pureéd, and garnished.

It wasn't that he didn't like cooking. No, no, it was an art, it was interesting. But John _wasn't_ a cook and he could barely pronounce anything they were making, let alone make it himself. It was nice to watch, but... well, after the rush of Afghanistan, medic for a televised cooking show was kind of lacklustre.

But, not to complain; it was work, and work was something he desperately needed right now. So his therapist said.

"Medic."

John glanced up; that was his battle cry someone was hailing. "Got this one, Mike," he said, getting to his feet before one of his fellow medics could. He grabbed the first-aid kit and made his way through the throng of wanna-be or already-are chefs.

The man in question was tall and skinny, with a shock of black curls, and bright red crimson running down his wrist. John blinked a few times, thinking he was imagining the blood, but he wasn't. It was really there.

"What did you do?" he demanded, reaching for the man's arm. 'Sherlock,' the apron said.

Sherlock held out his hand without resistance. With his right hand, he expertly cracked open an egg without looking up and tossed the shell into the bin. "Cut myself. Didn't notice when. The blood's a bit irksome, though, so, if you could."

John gaped at him for a half second before snapping into action. How did you not notice if you cut yourself? Well, okay, a little knick here or there, John could understand, but with that much blood. This Sherlock bloke must have a ridiculously high pain tolerance.

John wiped the blood clean quickly and located the cut; it was probably definitely from the jalapeno peppers that Sherlock had been slicing up, but it was deep enought that it normally would have left John cringing in sympathy. Sherlock seemed unperturbed; in fact, John had to hold onto his wrist tighter as Sherlock leaned over to try and continue with whatever he was preparing.

"Hold on," John muttered. "I know you're on a time limit, but if this isn't-"

Sherlock didn't look up from what was now starting to - yes, he was definitely making a hamburger. John guessed, anyway. What looked like a hamburger to him could have probably been some fancy super-elite meal, for all he knew.

"Did you serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock interrupted.

John stopped.

Sherlock glanced up, disinterestedly and more than a little distant. "Are you finished?"

John stared up at him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then flicked his gaze down to his hand.

"Oh!" John shook himself. "No, hang on." He finished off treating the cut, reaching for a glove. "Put this on. How did you know?"

Sherlock swiped the glove from him and wiggled his long fingers into it. "Haircut, posture, tan lines, limp." The glove snapped against his wrist. "You're looking for a flatshare. So am I. Talk to me after the competition." He turned back to the hamburger for a brief moment before moving down the line to the next thing, working two-handedly again without a flicker of pain on his face.

John frowned. Haircut? What was wrong with his haircut? And what about his limp said he had been in Afghanistan or Iraq? Who was this Sherlock guy?

"Oh, you're still here." Sherlock had returned, and he took to expertly slicing up potatoes with ease on the countertop.

"Who _are_ you?" John demanded. "And who said anything about flatmates?"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock dropped the knife with a clatter, half-smiling in a way that was not particularly reassuring. "More later. Now, move."

John blinked a few times. "What?"

"Move!" Sherlock retorted. "I need the olive oil, you're in the way!"

"Oh!" John grabbed his kit and moved out of the way. "Sorry."

Sherlock said nothing else, just grabbed the olive oil and continued making whatever it was he was making, leaving John to either stand and gape or turn and walk away and gape from afar. He opted for the second option and was still frowning as he joined the other medics again.

"Did you deduce you?" Mike asked.

John blinked, looking over at him. "Huh?"

"Sherlock." Mike nodded towards the man in question. "You look a little out there. He probably figured something about you, right?"

"He's done it to you, too?"

Mike smiled. "Yeah. He's always like that."

John gave a little _huh_ as he pulled off his gloves, turning his gaze back to the mystery man in the white apron. He'd just been asked to move in with a total stranger who seemed like, what, a genius? Not only that, but apparently a culinary genius, too, because Sherlock went on to be in the top three of the night with his jalapeno bacon cheeseburger with french fries (_"seasoned with coarse sea salt and finely chopped parsley"_, Sherlock had said when he announced it, like a food snob, John had to admit but _damn_, if that didn't look like the best cheeseburger and fries John had ever seen).

... He might not know anything about him, but, if nothing else, at least John knew that Sherlock Holmes could cook. That could be helpful in quibbling over who would make dinner.

Sherlock pulled his apron off after the cameras had gone, his dark hair sticking up in a wild disarray. He draped it over the counter and met John's eyes across the room. He tilted his head ever so slightly.

John sighed. Why the hell not?

"Well done on you, Mr Holmes," he said, looking up at the tall chef.

"Sherlock, please." Sherlock stuck out his hand.

"Right, Sherlock." John took it. For all he knew, he could have been shaking hands with a psychopath. "I'm John. John Watson."

"Yes." Sherlock pulled away, taking great interest in peeling the glove John had provided him with away from his fingers.

"You should leave that on, just in-" John stopped as Sherlock peeled it off entirely. "... Right," he repeated, then straightened up. "You said Baker Street. Isn't that a prime spot?"

Sherlock brightened, smiling again. This time, it was less sly and more conversational, more human. "The landlady, Mrs Hudson, owes me a favour..."

* * *

><p><strong>IT GOT IN MY HEAD AND IT WOULDN'T LEAVE. I have a guilty pleasure for Masterchef (although mainly Masterchef Jr *o*) and I'm like, what if Sherlock was undercover for a case and got on the show where he met John? And yep, I wrote it. <strong>

**(PS: in my headcanon, after this case is over and Sherlock's talked John into moving in with him, Sherlock never again cooks this way. Ever. John spends his time wondering where the hell that culinary genius went as they poke and prod at warmed-over beans for dinner.)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_, nor do I own _Masterchef_ or any cooking show akin to it. All rights to their respective owners. Thanks for reading!**


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